Decades after my mother’s death, I found her last written pages in an old accordion file folder. Her muddled writings told of a life in Europe I didn’t know about. A common trait among Jews who lived with Holocaust trauma is silence, and my family was no different. They also believed their secrets would shield me, but their efforts fell short. Like my family’s past, you couldn’t see my grief.
I always knew my grandmother endured great hardships through the Russian Revolution and barely escaped with her life. Then her family experienced the terrors of Nazi-occupied Lithuania before narrowly escaping to rural Nova Scotia, Canada. Needing to know more, I felt the sting of disappointment over my mother’s papers.
In frustration, I returned the papers to the folder and stored everything away.
A year later, for no specific reason, I read my mother’s pages again. This time her writing seemed clearer, so perhaps I was ready. A rough copy of my family tree ended abruptly, except for a few branches. This brought a catastrophic reality to my life that I didn’t expect. Ignoring the truth wasn’t an option anymore. My mother’s notes helped to write a few short stories which marked the start of my journey, but I never foresaw a book.
A new intense need to share my ancestors’ stories led to my initial readings within my writing community. Imagine my fear because I had never spoken about my family’s history until then. An awkward silence followed the end of my first reading. Then the questions came. I didn’t have answers to all the enquires and so this pushed me down a terrifying rabbit hole of information.
My initial research involved my Great Uncle Nathan, a victim of the Holocaust. When I googled Nathan, his portrait popped up on a stranger’s Facebook page. Asking about the photo prompted a conversation with the user – a German historian named Ruth. She specializes in the region where my family lived during the pre-World War II years. Ruth had received the photo years ago from my Israeli cousin.
From that moment on, whenever my research came to a dead-end, I wrote to Ruth. I gave her the details, as I knew them, such as my grandmother taking her daughter and escaping from Nazi-occupied Lithuania. Ruth gave me the only route out. Her information enriched my stories beyond what I could imagine.
My work sank into chaos as I struggled with my short-term memory impairment and the lack of experience in writing a manuscript. The writing and research were like pieces of puzzles — and my skills don’t include puzzling. The frustration almost stopped me, but I created an information wall using sticky notes. Each contained critical information: titles, jotted notes, research fragments and dates. With this done, I took a well-deserved break.
A week later, I stood in front of my information wall with a notebook and pencil. Nothing happened, so I waited. Once I started moving my notes around the puzzle — events, locations, and names gradually connected. An outline for my manuscript took shape, filling me with hope and an eagerness to move forward.
The deeper into my research, the more alive my ancestors became. Unique personalities emerged, showing their strengths and weaknesses, opinions, quirks, and dreams. They grew into constant companions, which was peculiar for a person who didn’t believe in spirits — yet here they were. They made their pleasure known when satisfied, and their irritation clear when annoyed. Their happiness was energizing, but their anger consumed me until I resolved the offending issue and restored harmony again.
Once I wrote about a resilient family that struggled with financial difficulties. My grandfather loved these folks and offered his financial support, which they refused. Eventually, they had no alternative but to accept. As I wrote, a powerful rage erupted around my desk. It was so intense I couldn’t concentrate and I wondered what had happened. My grandfather never flaunted his generosity, so I promptly deleted this act of kindness and harmony resumed. Was this negative energy my grandfather’s spirit?
The more alive my family members became, the more I mourned their passing. I experienced all the symptoms of grief — sadness, anxiety, sleepless nights, and depression. No one else could grasp the anguish I endured for individuals who had passed decades ago, and so I grieved alone.
Fate sent a rabbi who encouraged me to take a class titled, ‘Life, Death and the Hereafter.’ Despite never exploring the Torah, I signed up. As I learned to cope with my ancestors’ horrifying deaths, I also discovered ways to honour their memories during my daily life. There are times I bake for my friends and dedicate the treats to my ancestors. I discreetly write the name of a deceased relative on the package, hoping that the recipient notices and asks me questions. And if not, that’s okay too.
A diverse group of writers, computer geeks, retired editors and publishers unexpectedly gathered around me. A friend dubbed them Team Sharon, and it stuck. Each individual generously shared their unique abilities, which kept me on track and propelled my story forward. I will never forget their generosity.
Against the advice of my team, I asked my siblings if they wanted to read my manuscript. It wasn’t courage: I needed their endorsement to move forward. Fear reigned until their overwhelming support arrived, along with an unexpected gift — their pride. Family members commonly have their perspectives on events, but our minor differences didn’t affect their gratitude for my story. My siblings became honorary members of Team Sharon as well.
Team Sharon expanded to include my husband, daughters, grandson, and more. I reconnected with family members and friends from decades ago. I discovered family I never knew existed, and now I can’t imagine my life without them. Some writers tell me that writing is lonely, but I never felt alone.
After persevering through the daunting task of publishing, I took centre stage at my book launch in front of an audience of ninety-five people. My voice didn’t quiver, my hands didn’t shake, my stomach wasn’t nervous, and there were no tears. And so, another extraordinary chapter had begun – speaking engagements enhanced with slide shows. And I loved every moment. Unraveling the mysteries of my Jewish history has brought new possibilities and fascinating people into my life, and I am forever grateful.
When the Israel-Hamas War began, all doors closed to Jewish performers in British Columbia. Friendships changed, people made insensitive remarks, support for the Palestinian people grew through demonstrations, hatred for the Jews surfaced, and reality grabbed every fibre of my being. Devastated, I shut down.
A wise rabbi said, ‘If people don’t want to hear my story, then this is a story that needs to be told’. One day I’ll tell my stories again and people will listen. In the meantime, I’m working with my second manuscript and presentation — the story of my cousin Ulla, a Holocaust survivor.
